81 

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After  the  Matinee 


Hellen  Morrison  Howie 


BUSHING  COMP. 


^aas 

After  the  Matinee 


A Comedy  in  One  Act 


By  Hellen  Morrison  Howie 

Author  of  "His  Father's  Son,"  "The  Reformer  Reformed etc* 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  PENN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


1908 


Copyright  1899  by  The  Penn  Publishing  Company 


/7^/^^a 


?/i 


After  the  Matinee 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

Dorothy  Weston,  A fascinating , if  somewhat  high-spir- 
ited society  girl . 

Alan  Maxfield,  M.  D.,  /077<?r. 

Dick  Weston,  brother . ^4  of  sixteen , who  affects 

the  manners  of  a man . 

Lucy,  maid . 


Costumes  in  Accordance  with  Characters 

ST 

Time  in  Representation — One  Hour. 

5 

U- 


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© 

“2T 

VP 


t/j 

6 

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cS 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


SCENE. — A handsomely  furnished  room  with  double  doors 
opening  into  a small  hall  at  the  back  j on  the  right  to- 
wards the  front , a fireplace , a fire  burning  in  the  grate , 
clock  and  ornaments  on  the  mantel  shelf  j in  front  of 
the  fireplace  a table  on  which  some  magazines , a paper- 
knife , a fan  and  various  small  objects  are  scattered ; in 
the  centre  of  the  table,  a lamp  turned  low  j chairs  are 
placed  at  each  side , and  one  at  the  further  end  of  the 
table — the  chair  to  the  right  being  a low  fauteuil;  at  the 
further  end  of  the  room , at  the  right , an  escritoire  ; at 
the  left  of  the  room  a piano  j a settee  and  chairs  taste- 
fully disposed  about  the  apart?nent. 

Dorothy  ( slipping  from  her  shoulders  a handsome  thea- 
tre wrap  and  throwing  it  on  the  settee ).  Pardon  me,  Mr. 
Maxfield,  if  I fail  to  see  why  I should  take  the  trouble  of 
explaining  my  moods  to  you  ! 

Maxfield.  Well,  Dorothy  I must  say,  I never  saw  a 
woman  who  could  work  herself  into  a rage  so  successfully 
as  you  can  ! ( Placing  his  coa*t  and  hat  on  a chair  by  the 

door.) 

Dorothy.  I don’t  have  to  work  very  hard  to  get  into  a 
rage  when  I am  in  your  company ! ( Turning  up  the 

lamp.) 

Maxfield.  Is  not  this  ridiculously  childish  ! Why  do 
you  persist  in  making  yourself  unhappy — and  me  ? ( At- 

tempting to  take  her  hand.) 

Dorothy  ( jerking  it  away).  Which  is  vastly  more  im- 
portant of  course  ! But  you  mistake.  What  cause  have  I 
for  unhappiness  ? Have  I not  this  very  afternoon  spent  three 
and  a half  hours  in  your  delightful  society  ? Then  the  play 
was  bright — you  had  nothing  to  do  with  that — and  I enjoyed 
it  despite  the  fact  that  you  sat  with  your  eyes  shut  through- 
out the  performance  and  answered  “ Yes  ” without  even 
opening  them  when  I a3ked  you  if  my  hair  was  all  right  ! 

Maxfield  (amused).  Did  I though  ? — that  was  a very 
grave  offence  I admit.  Was  it  my  only  one  ? 


5 


6 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


Dorothy  ( with  a shrug).  Let  us  drop  the  matter  ; it  is, 
as  you  say,  so  ridiculously  childish.  {Glancing  at  the  clock .) 
Are  you  forgetting  that  your  father  leaves  for  the  west  to- 
night and  that  you  must  see  him  before  his  departure  ? 

Maxfield  {smiling).  No  ; but  1 have  half  an  hour  yet. 
(Dorothy  with  the  air  of  a inartyr  sinks  into  a chair  with 
a sigh.)  Dorothy  ! {Reproachfully .) 

Dorothy  {mockingly).  Dorothy  ! Dorothy  ! How  tired 
I am  of  the  sound  ! Why  didn’t  mamma  call  me  Catherine, 
or  Julia,  or  Beatrix,  or  Helen,  or  anything  but  Dorothy  ! 
A more  inappropriate  name  could  hardly  have  been  be- 
stowed upon  me. 

Maxfield.  True.  You  are  hopelessly  different  from  the 
Dorothy  of  tradition.  The  very  name  shows  that — Dorothea, 
gift  from  Heaven. 

Dorothy.  You  mean  to  imply  ? 

Maxfield.  Not  at  all.  Though  at  times  you  have  a de- 
cided talent  for  making  things  hot. 

Dorothy.  Wretch  ! 

Maxfield.  The  Dorothy  of  tradition  is  sweet  and  gentle, 
winsome  and — 

Dorothy.  Everything  that  I am  not ! I know  that  is 
what  you  are  going  to  say,  so  I may  just  as  well  anticipate. 

Maxfield.  Not  exactly.  But  I have  remarked  how 
singularly  inappropriate  your  name  is.  Still  it  is  hardly  fair 
to  blame  your  mother.  Poor  woman,  she  meant  well  ! 
When  you  lay  in  her  arms,  a soft  little  wad  of  swan’s-down 
cotton  (Dorothy  smiles  in  spite  of  herself)  you  seemed  to 
her  a veritable  gift  from  Heaven.  She  couldn’t  tell  then 
how  you  were  going  to  grow  up,  you  know. 

Dorothy.  Such  impertinence  1 

Maxfield.  Considering  her  Puritan  blood,  she  did  very 
well  by  you.  You  know  she  might  have  called  you  Hope, 
Faith,  or  Charity,  or  even  Patience  ! {Laughing.) 

Dorothy  {mocking  him).  Ha!  ha!  Funny,  isn’t  it  ? I 
suppose  you  think  I ought  to  have  been  christened  Imp  or 
Firebrand,  or  Vixen,  or  Gadfly,  or- — 

Maxfield  {leaning  over  her  chair  and  speaking  in  a 
changed  voice).  No,  dear,  butofttimes  in  my  thoughts  I call 
you  Cassandra,  because  you  inspire  love. 

Dorothy  {with  a curl  of  her  lip).  Really  I prefer  your 
other  mood.  It  is  more  natural.  As  for  my  name  {rising), 
that  has  always  been  to  me  a matter  of  the  supremest  in- 
difference— until  lately,  when  the  constant  sound  of  it  on  your 
lips,  has  become  almost  intolerable  ! 

Maxfield.  Miss  Weston  ! Dorothy  ! 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


7 


Dorothy.  There  ! Once  more  ! 

Maxfield.  By  Jove,  it  takes  a woman  to  be  cruel ! 

Dorothy.  Yes,  and  it  takes  a man  to  be  dense  ! 

Maxfield.  That  is  true  ; and  as  I am  more  dense 
than  the  average  male,  you  will  have  to  tell  me,  Dorothy, 
how  I offended  you  this  afternoon.  It  was  rather  unlover- 
like conduct  to  sit  there  with  my  eyes  closed,  I admit — but  I 
had  seen  the  play  before,  dear,  and  your  attention  seemed  so 
entirely  engrossed.  It  wasn’t  that  I was  tired  or  bored,  for 
mentally  I was  seeing  scenes  far  more  beautiful  than  those 
on  the  stage.  Shall  I tell  you  of  what  I was  thinking  as  I 
gat  by  your  side  this  afternoon  ? Thank  you.  I see  by  your 
expression  that  you  would  fain  spare  me  the  unnecessary 
trouble. 

Dorothy.  Then  my  looks  but  feebly  express  my  feelings. 

Maxfield.  Such  refreshing  candor  ! Nevertheless  even 
at  the  risk  of  boring  you — 

Dorothy  ( with  a slight  upward  movement  of  the  hands'). 
Quite  used  to  it,  I assure  you. 

Maxfield.  In  that  case  may  I beg  once  more  your  kind 
indulgence  ? (. Motions  Dorothy  to  be  seated ; with  a 

shrug  and  lifting  of  the  eyebrows  she  slowly  sinks  into,  the 
fauteuil ; Maxfield  is  a little  to  one  side  and  back  of 
Dorothy,  leaning , half  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  table  j he 
looks  down  at  her  as  he  talks.)  Rather  queer,  wasn’t  it, 
that  I should  be  thinking  just  then  of  the  time  when  I first 
met  you,  away  out  there  in  Monterey.  You  may  not  believe 
it,  Dorothy,  but  those  were  the  happiest  days  I ever  spent. 
There  is  just  so  much  that  one  gets  in  this  life,  and  it  is  a 
good  deal  to  be  able  to  say  “ I was  perfectly  happy  then.’* 
Monterey  ! Whenever  I hear  that  name  my  heart  beats 
faster.  Nowhere  else  to  me  are  the  skies  quite  so  blue  ; no- 
where else  do  the  waves  sing  such  a glad  song  as  they  do 
along  the/ curve  of  that  enchanted  beach.  Do  you  remember 
how  we  used  to  stroll  for  hours  along  that  level  stretch  of 
sand  ? This  chair  isn’t  half  so  comfortable,  is  it,  as  the  seat 
I improvised  for  you,  in  the  hulk  of  that  old  overturned 
boat  ? Do  you  remember  how  those  fishermen’s  children 
used  to  come  over  every  morning  for  pennies  ? ( Continuing 
more  slowly.)  Do  you  remember  the  day  when  we  walked 
out  to  the  very  end  of  the  Crescent  ? — it  was  there  that  you 
first  told  me  that  you  loved — 

Dorothy  (with  a quick  upward  movement  of  the  hand 
towards  his  lips).  Oh,  no,  no,  no  ! ( She  regains  her  com- 

posure instantly .)  Strange  ! ( Knitting  her  brows  in  pre- 
tended thought .)  Was  it  to  you  I made  that  sweet  confession 


8 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


out  there  on  the  rocks  ? What  a wretched  memory  I have, 
to  be  sure  ! You  see  those  three  Woodruff  boys  were  at 
Monterey  that  season. 

Maxfield  ( turns  on  his  heel  with  a ?nuttered  exclama- 
tion ; after  a mome7it  returns  to  her  side ; continues , in  a 
tone  of  affected  lightness ).  Surely  you  remember  the  day 
we  went  fishing  ? 

Dorothy  ( shaking  her  head).  Never  caught  a fish  in 
my  life. 

Maxfield.  I didn’t  say  you  caught  any  fish,  dear. 

Dorothy.  Oh  ! (Aside.)  That’s  the  time  he  landed  his 
fish  all  right. 

Maxfield  (piqued).  Perhaps  you  have  also  forgotten 
those  evenings  on  the  pier  ? 

Dorothy.  Oh,  no,  I remember  sitting  there  quite  often 
— with  mamma. 

Maxfield.  Your  mother  didn’t  happen  to  be  present  on 
the  occasions  of  which  I speak. 

Dorothy.  Ah  ! that  accounts  for  your  being  there. 
(With  an  impatient  exclamation  Maxfield  walks  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room;  Dorothy  rises , coming  forward 
towards  the  centre  and  front  of  the  stage ; Maxfield 
approaches,  standing  back  and  left  of  her.)  But  now  that 
you  have  had  the  questionable  satisfaction  of  proving  that 
my  memory  is  so  faulty,  let  me  try  yours.  Do  you  remem- 
ber that  afternoon  when  we  went  out  in  the  row  boat  ? How 
I sang  to  you  (Maxwell  slips  his  arm  about  her  waist ; 
Dorothy  takes  no  notice ),  and  braided  a rope  of  seaweed 
and  flung  it  to  you,  and  you  wound  it  about  you  and  called 
yourself  my  captive,  and  how  the  boat  drifted  far  out  beyond 
the  inlet,  and  how  you  had  to  row  like  mad  to  get  in  again, 
because  that  terrific  thunder-storm  came  up,  and  how  we 
were  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  my  new  gown  was  ruined, 
and — don’t  you  remember  that  trip  ? 

Maxfield  (somewhat  bitterly).  Aren’t  you  getting  me 
mixed  up  with  one  of  those  Woodruff  boys  ? 

Dorothy  (breaking  away  from  him  with  a tantalizing 
laugh).  Nothing  the  matter  with  your  memory,  I see. 

( Takes  a seat  beside  the  table.) 

Maxfield.  Will  you  stop  fooling  ! 

Dorothy.  I’m  not  fooling.  I really  took  that  trip. 
(Glancing  at  the  clock.) 

Maxfield  (notes  the  direction  of  her  glance).  I have 
still  fifteen  minutes  you  see,  but  as  you  seem  particularly 
anxious  to  be  relieved  of  my  presence  I will  go,  especially  as 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


9 


.now  that  just  now  it  is  useless  to  stay.  Nothing  I can  do 
r say  avails  when  my  lady  is  in  one  of  her  moods.  ( Goes 
to  the  chair  by  the  door , and  lifting  his  overcoat  commences 
to  put  it  on;  continues  in  a gayer  tone.)  But  when  I return 
this  evening,  as  I will,  in  a couple  of  hours,  I — 

Dorothy  {in  a changed , hard  voice).  Pardon  me,  Dr. 
Maxfield,  but  I am  engaged  for  this  evening. 

{She  has  risen  and  is  standing  with  her  back  to  him , her 
hand  on  the  table , against  which  she  leans.) 


Maxfield  {stops  abruptly  in  the  act  of  putting  on  his 
coat ; takes  it  off  and  lays  it  once  more  on  the  chair;  ad- 
vances, but  without  any * appearance  of  hurrying , to  her 
side).  You  surely  have  forgotten  ! It  was  you,  yourself, 
who  told  me  to  come  this  evening. 

Dorothy.  I — I have  changed  my  mind. 

Maxfield.  What  a tease  you  are,  to  be  sure  ! {Attempts 
to  put  his  arm  about  her;  she  pushes  his  hand  away , facing 
him  suddenly .)  Dorothy  ! It  can’t  be  that  you  mean  it  ! 
That  you  do  not  wish  me  to  come  ? 

Dorothy  {coldly  and  deliberately).  That  is  what  I mean, 
Dr.  Maxtield.  I do  not  wish  you  to  call  again  to-night,  or 
—ever  ! 

Maxfield.  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ? Look 
at  me  ! {Seizes  her  wrist  and  forces  her  to  meet  his  gaze.) 
By  Jove  ! I believe  you  mean  it  ! No  ! No  ! It  is  too 
absurd — too  unjust  ! At  least  tell  me — what  have  I done  ? 
{She  remains  silent , her  head  averted .)  Speak  ! 

Dorothy  ( wrenching  her  hand  free).  I have  nothing  to 
say. 

Maxfield.  Then  1 have  ! Only  three  words,  but  therein 
lies  the  key  to  your  mood.  You  are  jealous  ! {Speaking 
the  last  three  words  very  distinctly  and  close  to  her  ear.) 

Dorothy  {with  a forced  laugh).  Ha  ! ha  ! This  is  a 
good  joke.  Jealous  am  I — I — and  of  whom,  pray  ? 

Maxfield  {producing  from  his  vest  pocket  a miniature). 
Did  you  ever  see  that  face  before  ? {Holding  it  before  herl) 

Dorothy  {scarcely  glancing  at  it).  Surely  if  I had  I 
should  never  have  forgotten  it.  It  is  so  exceedingly  ugly. 

Maxfield  {smiling  and  addressing  the  miniature).  Not 
quite  so  bad  as  that,  is  it,  Bluebell,  my  dear  ? 

Dorothy  {aside).  Bluebell  ! Listen  to  the  name  ! Blue- 
bell-s-s-s.  {Making  a sound  of  contempt.) 

Maxfield  {placing  the  miniature  on  the  table  and  turning 
to  Dorothy).  True,  she  isn’t  handsome  like  you,  but  then 
she’s  good — 


IO 


AFTER *THE  MATINEE 


Dorothy.  Unlike  me,  hey  ? 

Maxfield.  Ahem  ! Thank  you.  (Dorothy  crosses  t 
the  piano  where  she  stands , her  elbow  on  the  top  of  the  in 
strnment , her  back  to  Maxfield  ; with  her  right  hand  she 
thumps  out  in  an  aggravating  way  the  popular  negro 
melody , “ I Don' t Like  no  Cheap  Man ,”  Maxfield  contin- 
ues in  an  asidel\  Dorothy  jealous  ! Well  ( rubbing  his 
hands),  this  is  a new  experience  for  me.  It  will  do  her  no 
harm  to  find  out  how  it  feels.  This  accounts  for  her  strange 
behavior  at  the  matinee.  She  was  all  right  until  I took  out 
my  wallet  and  began  searching  for  one  of  her  letters,  the 
date  of  which  we  were  disputing  ; then  Bluebell’s  picture 
slipped  out  and  fell  right  into  her  la*p.  She  scarcely  touched 
it  as  she  returned  it  to  me,  saying,  in  that  cold  little  tone  of  hers, 
“ I see  my  letters  keep  good  company.”  Jealou-s  ! — of  course 
she  is  ! Oh,  if  she  only  knew  ! ( Looking  at  Dorothy.) 

Look  at  her  now,  the  little  jade  ! I’m  dying  to  crush  her  in 
my  arms  ! — but  not  yet  ! — not  yet  ! 

Dorothy  (in  mock  surprise , turning  from  the  piano). 
What  ! not  gone  yet  ? 

Maxfield.  No  ; going.  ( Puts  on  his  coat , lifts  his  hat 
from  the  chair  and  bows.)  Good-evening,  Miss  Weston. 

Dorothy.  Good-bye,  Dr.  Maxfield.  (Me  goes  out ; 
Dorothy  remains  motionless ; there  is  a short  pause,) 

Maxfield  (returning  and  standing  in  the  doorway ). 
Dorothy  ! 

Dorothy.  Alan  ! (He  advances  and  is  about  to  take 
her  in  his  arms ; she  repels  him  with  a motion  of  the 
hand.)  No,  no  ! take  back  what  you  said  first. 

Maxfield  (puzzled).  What  I said  ? 

Dorothy.  Yes.  (Somewhat  hesitatingly .)  This  after- 
noon at  the  matinee  you  said  that  you — loved  her. 

Maxfield  (biting  his  lip  to  keep  back  a smile).  Did  I 
say  that  ? Well,  it  is  true — but  I love  you  more. 

Dorothy  (mockingly).  Oh,  thank  you  ! Take  my  ad- 
vice, Dr.  Maxfield,  and  transfer  the  affection  you  are  wast- 
ing on  me — to — what’s  the  name  ? — ah,  yes — Bluebell  ! I 
assure  you  that  even  then  the  poor  dear  won’t  have  any  too 
much. 

Maxfield.  I don’t  think  she  would  prize  it  very  highly  ; 
besides,  I’m  sure  she  never  even  dreams  that  I care  for  her. 

Dorothy.  Not  at  all  surprising,  if  you  treat  her  as  you 
do  me. 

Maxfield.  It  is  quite  a long  story  about  Bluebell.  Do 
you  think  you  will  be  able  to  trust  me  until  to-night,  dear, 
when  I will  explain  everything  ? 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


II 


DOROTHY.  If  you  have  any  explanation  to  make,  Dr. 
Maxfield,  it  must  be  made  now  or  never  ! 

Maxfield.  And  this  is  the  quality  of  your  love  for  me  ! 
I have  given  you  everything,  but  when  I ask  you  simply  to 
withhold  judgment  for  two  short  hours  I get  this  reply. 

Dorothy.  Now  or  never  ! 

Maxfield.  Neither  ; but  to-night  at  half-past  nine  I will 
be  here. 

Dorothy.  Then  I will  be  elsewhere. 

Maxfield.  Listen,  Dorothy  Weston  ! ( Seizing  both  her 

hands  while  she  struggles  vainly  to  free  herself l)  You 

don’t  know  what  it  means  to  be  thwarted.  You  have  been 
spoiled  and  petted,  loved  and  worshipped  all  your  life.  I, 
more  than  the  others,  have  humored  your  every  whim,  but 
for  this  once  I intend  to  be  master — and  to-night  when  I re- 
turn you  will  be  here — do  you  understand  ? Until  then  you 
must — you  shall  trust  me  ! ( Forces  her  back  into  a chair , 
covers  her  face  with  kisses , snatches  his  hat  and  rushes 
from  the  room.) 

DOROTHY  ( starting  to  her  feet  with  a cry  of  baffled  rage). 
Insufferable  audacity  ! How  dare  he  ! And  I’ll  be  here  to- 
night to  receive  him,  will  I ? — oh,  we’ll  see  l ( Rings  for  her 
maid ; enter  Lucy.)  Lucy,  tell  Baker  when  Dr.  Maxfield  calls, 
as  he  will  this  evening  at  half-past  nine  o’clock — -to  say  that  I 
am  not  at  home.  Make  no  mistake,  Lucy  ! You  understand  ? 

Lucy.  Yes,  miss,  perfectly. 

Dorothy.  And,  Lucy,  I wish  you  would  bring  me  my 
slippers — and — (. Breaks  off  abruptly , evidently  revolving 
some  vexed  question  in  her  mind  j there  is  a short  pause.) 

Lucy.  Yes,  miss  ? 

Dorothy.  And — you  may  pack  my  valise. 

Lucy.  You  are  going  away  ? 

Dorothy.  Yes.  I think  a change  of  air  will  be  bene- 
ficial. Then  Aunt  Margaret  has  been  so  anxious  to  have 
me  visit  her.  I have  neglected  her  long  enough. 

LUCY  (aside).  Oh,  yes — but  I know  what  is  back  of  this 
sudden  affection  for  Aunt  Margaret.  I told  Baker  that  they 
had  had  a quarrel  ! An  elegant  man  like  Dr.  Maxfield — so 
polite — as  he  is — doesn’t  run  people  down  in  the  hall  the 
way  he  did  me  a few  minutes  ago  unless  he’s  terribly  ex- 
cited. It’s  a lover’s  quarrel,  that’s  what.  (Runs  off.) 

Dorothy  ( wanders  restlessly  about  the  room ; takes 
up  a book , turns  the  pages  a minute , slams  it  down  again , 
as  she  does  so , perceives  the  miniature  on  the  table. 
Sarcastically).  Has  he  gone  and  actually  left  you,  Blue- 
bell ? (Examines  the  photo.)  And  I am  jealous  of  her,  am 


12 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


I ? Why,  there  isn’t  a pretty  feature  in  her  face  ! Look  at 
her  nose  ? To  be  kind,  we'll  call  it  retroussf  but  it’s  noth- 
ino-  but  an  old-fashioned  pug!  Such  a weak  chin  ! There’s 
a person  who  has  never  learned  the  art  of  expression.  She 
sits  all  in  a heap,  lifting  her  eyes  in  a deprecating  sort  of 
way  as  if  she  were  apologizing  to  the  artist  for  her  lack  ot 
beauty — and  well  she  might.  ( Tossing  it  on  the  table) 

(Enter  Lucy  with  her  mistress's  slippers  which  she  places 
V beside  the  chair,  near  the  fire.) 

LUCY  ( Poking  at  the  fire).  Shall  I put  on  another  log, 

Dorothy  (with  her  back  turned).  As  you  please 
Lucy.  One  ? ( Pausing  with  the  second  log  m her  hand.) 
Dorothy.  One — yes— or  twenty. 

Lucy  (aside,  laying  down  the  wood , and  lifting  her 
hands').  My,  she  doesn’t  care  for  nothing  now.  Just  acts 
like  Rosilander  in  the  story  Baker  read  to  me  when  the 
Duke  brought  her  the  jewels  that  had  been  heirlooms  (. pro- 
nounces the  letter  h)  in  his  family  for  thousands  of  years 
she  just  swept  them  to  one  side  as  though  they  had  been  so 
much  rubbish,  and  kept  calling  out,  “ Oh,  that  I were  dead  . 
Oh,  that  I were  dead!”  (in  tragic  imitation  of  the -fair 
Rosalinda .)  Just  because  she  had  quarrelled  with  Fitzhug  , 
and  he  had  left  her  to  ride  across  the  border  with  Pnnce 
Charlie.  My!  it’s  a terrible  thing— this  love  ! {Puts  the 
logon  the  fire,  and,  getting  down  on  her  knees,  dusts  the 
hearth,  stealing  an  occasional  glance  at  her  mistress ) 
Dorothy  (aside).  Am  I the  same  girl  who  sang  so  gay  y 
this  morning  ? This  morning,  why  it  seems  ages  ago  ‘I 
was  too  happy.  I might  have  known  something  would  hap- 
pen. (Aloud.)  Oh!  (Forgetful  of  Lucy  s presence  sinks 
into  a chair,  and  burying  her  face  tn  her  hands,  lays  her 

head  on  the  table.)  . . . . 

Lucy  (starting  to  her  feet).  Oh,  miss,  what  is  it . Are 

y°DOROTHY  (rising).  No,  no,  it’s  nothing.  You  have 
brought  my  slippers,  I see.  (Seats  herself  in  a chair  by  the 
fire  ■ Lucy  kneels  to  unfasten  her  mistress  s shoes  ; a short 
pause)  Lucy,  during  my  absence  you  may  take  a week 
and  go  down  and  see  your  mother— but  don  t be  running  off 
and  getting  married. 

Lucy  (shaking  her  head).  Oh,  no,  miss. 

Dorothy.  You  say  that  very  decidedly.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  a good-looking  girl  like  you  didn’t  leave  a lover 
behind  you /down  there  in  Winslow  ? 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE  1 3 

Lucy  ( with  a toss  of  her  head).  Indeed  I did,  miss, 
more  than  one. 

Dorothy,  There,  I knew  it ! Tell  me  about  them. 
Begin  as  far  back  as  you  remember.  Who  was  your  very 
first  sweetheart  ? 

Lucy  ( bashfully ).  Well,  there  was  Sam  Burns — but 
gracious,  I wouldn’t  call  him  a sweetheart ! Ugh  ! the  sight 
of  him  would  make  you  sick  ! His  trousers  came  up  to  there 
( touching  her  dress  midway  between  the  ankle  and  knee ) 
and  his  jacket  sleeves  came  way  below  his  knuckles.  His 
right  jacket  sleeve  was  always  shiny,  too.  His  mother  put 
pins  in  it,  but  it  didn’t  cure  him.  He  never  spoke  to  the 
other  girls,  but  he  always  said,  “ Hello,  Lucy  ! ” ( imitating 
Sam’s  manner  of  drawing  his  sleeve  across  his  nose)  to 
me.  He  was  the  dirtiest  thing  ! Yet  somehow  that  boy  got 
around  me  ! Why,  I even  gave  him  a Christmas  present 
once. 

Dorothy.  What  did  you  give  him  ? Handkerchiefs  ? 

Lucy  ( laughing  loudly).  Ha,  ha!  ( Claps  her  hand 
over  her  mouth , abashed  at  the  noise  she  has  made.) 

Dorothy.  Poor  Sam  ! But  what  about  the  other  young 
man — Barclay,  I think,  was  his  name  ? 

Lucy  {sighing).  Yes,  miss.  It  makes  me  feel  lonesome 
when  I think  of  him.  He  was  such  lively  company  till  he 
drank  hisself  to  death,  and  he  was  the  obliginest  young 
man  you  ever  seen.  Why,  when  Mrs.  Eastman  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Mortimer  of  Glen  Farm  to  tell  the  Watsons  to  tell 
Mrs.  Simpson  to  tell  her  man  to  let  my  mother  know  that 
your  mother  wanted  a maid — {gees ping  for  breath)  he  walked 
twenty  miles  in  a blinding  snowstorm  to  bring  us  word. 
Poor  Barclay  ! He  was  a nice  young  man  but  he  had  one 
fault. 

Dorothy.  Yes,  intemperance  is  the  curse  of — 

Lucy.  Oh,  no,  miss — I don’t  mean  drink.  {Lowering 
her  voice.)  He  was  jealous  ! 

Dorothy  ( with  a little  gasp).  Oh  ! 

Lucy.  And  as  my  mother  used  to  say — you  see  she  knew 
— my  father  was  a bit  that  way — “ When  a man  or  a woman 
gives  way  to  that  feeling  no  lunatic  will  equal  them  for  crazy 
goings  on  ! ” You  see,  miss,  they’re  cleanout  of  their  heads 
for  the  time  being,  they  really  are  ! My  mother  used  to  say 
she’d  rather  have  a mad  dog  to  deal  with  than  a jealous 
man  or  woman — the  brute  was  more  reasonablelike. 

Dorothy  {somewhat  embarrassed).  Was — Barclay  very 
outrageous  ? 

LUCY.  Indeed  he  was  ! He  was  something  awful  ! He 


14 


AFTER  THE  MATIN&E 


made  me  promise  that  1 wouldn’t  even  look  at  a man  when  I 
came  here,  and  he  wrote  me  such  letters  ! I was  nearly 
scared  to  death  ! He  said  if  I even  so  much  as  glanced  at 
a New  York  policeman  he  would  come  down  and  smash  the 
whole  Broadway  squad  1 He  did  indeed  ! 

( Enter  Dick  Weston.) 

Dick  (to  Dorothy).  Oh,  here  you  are  ! I thought  you’d 
never  get  home  from  that  confounded  matinee  ! (LUCY  re- 
tires ; Dick  pulls  her  apron  string  as  she  passes.)  By  the 
way,  I met  Maxfield  just  now  rushing  around  the  corner  ; he 
was  muttering  to  himself  and  smiling  like  an  idiot.  I didn’t 
speak  to  him. 

Dorothy.  Just  as  well.  You  might  have  chased  that 
smile. 

Dick.  That’s  so.  There’s  no  love  lost  betweeii  us.  He 
imagines  he’s  the  only  pebble  on  the  beach.  What  do  you 
think  ! The  other  day  when  he  met  me  he  patted  me  on 
the  shoulder  and  said  “ How  do  you  do,  Dick,  my  boy  ? 
My  boy,  to  me  ! What  do  you  think  of  that  ? 

Dorothy  (turning  away  to  hide  a smile).  He’s  daring 
enough  for  anything,  that  man. 

Dick.  Said  I was  ruining  my  health  with  these  beastly 
cigarettes.  (Produces  one.)  Say,  you  don’t  mind  my  smok- 
ing, do  you  ? 

Dorothy.  Most  decidedly.  There,  at  least,  I agree  with 
Dr.  Maxfield. 

Dick.  Oh,  of  course  ! I have  noticed  of  late  that  you 
and  he  seem  to  understand  each  other  pretty  well.  Dorothy 
Weston  (seizing  a paper-knife  from  the  table  and  bran- 
dishing it  in  a murderous  fashion ),  if  you  married  that 
.fellow  I would — 1 (Pushes  back  her  head  and  draws  the 
knife  across  her  throat  significantly.)  Ah  ! Do  you  un- 
derstand ? 

Dorothy  {laughing).  Perfectly.  But  (somewhat  bit- 
terly),  don’t  be  afraid.  There  isn’t  much  danger  of  that  just 
at  present. 

Dick.  Just  as  well.  As  your  brother,  I have,  of  course, 
your  welfare  at  heart.  (Inflates  his  chest , spreads  his  legs 
and  begins  toying  with  the  down  on  his  upper  lip.)  And 
I must  confess  that  the  question  of  your  marriage  has  been 
causing  me  very  grave  anxiety. 

Dorothy.  Now  I know  what  has  affected  yoUr  health  ! 
And  mother’s  been  declaring  it  was  because  you  hadn’t  cut 
all  your  second  teeth. 

Dick.  Dorothy  Weston,  you  have  a way  of  saying  things 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


15 


that  I despise  ! There’s  no  sisterly  affection  about  you. 
Now  to  show  you  how  different  I am — what  a kind,  brotherly 
heart  I have — I will  refrain  from  telling  you  what  Jack  Wood- 
ruff said  about  you  the  other  day. 

Dorothy  ( coaxingly ).  Ah,  now,  Dickie,  you  know  that’s 
mean  of  you.  ( Putting  her  arm  about  his  neck  and  smoothing 
the  lapel  of  his  jacket .)  Tell  me — there’s  a sweety-weety  ! 

Dick  {shakes  his  head).  No. 

Dorothy.  Please,  Dicky,  dear. 

Dick.  No,  I say  ! 

Dorothy.  Dickie,  I insist ! 

Dick  {with  mock  reluctance ).  Well,  if  you  insist — 

Dorothy.  Yes,  yes  ! 

Dick.  He  said  he  was  willing  to  wager  a hundred  dol- 
lars that  you  would  marry  Maxfield,  because  he  was  the  only 
man  who  knew  how  to  manage  you. 

Dorothy  ( pushing  him  from  her  and  turning  away 
with  a frown).  Manage  me,  indeed  ! 

Dick.  M-m-m — that’s  what  he  said.  Doesn’t  sound  very 
complimentary,  does  it  ? Kind  of  as  if  you  were  a refractory 
horse,  don’t  you  know.  We  men  make  use  of  a great  many 
expressions  that  are  more  forceful  than  elegant,  I admit.  But, 
say,  Dorothy — to  come  down  to  business — will  you  lend  me 
a five  ? 

Dorothy.  Dick  Weston  ! Are  you  absolutely  devoid  of 
conscience  ? How  much  money  have  I already  given  you 
this  month  ? If  father  and  mother  knew — 

Dick.  But  they  never  will. 

Dorothy.  Don’t  be  too  sure  of  that.  It  is  very  ques- 
tionable kindness  on  my  part  to  shield  you.  You  are  getting 
into  habits  of  extravagance  simply  appalling  in  a boy  of 
your  age. 

Dick.  Sister  mine,  you  talk  like  a — a — sister — and  of 
course  I know  you  mean  it  for  my  good  and  all  that — and — 
if  you’ll  just  give  me  a five  this  once,  I’ll  reform — ’pon  my 
word  I will — stop  smoking — stop — well,  I’ll  be  a good  boy 
all  at  once  ! 

Dorothy.  A gradual  reform  is  more  apt  to  be  lasting — 
so  I’ll  begin  the  good  work  by  withholding  that  five. 

Dick.  Knew  by  your  face  the  moment  I came  in  that  you 
were  in  a beastly  temper — wouldn’t  have  risked  my  chances, 
but  I tell  you,  Dorothy,  I must  have  that  money  right  away  ! 
(Dorothy  shakes  her  head.)  Now,  don’t  shake  your  head  ! 
Just  listen  a minute,  will  you  ? {Leans  across  the  table 
where  he  sees  the  miniatured)  Hello  ! {Picking  it  up.) 
How  does  Lulu  Thornton’s  picture  happen  to  be  here  ? 


i6 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


(Dorothy  starts.)  Oh,  Maxfield,  of  course  ! ( Tossing  it 

down .) 

Dorothy  {aside).  Maxfield,  of  course  ! Then  every- 
body knows  it  ! Oh  ! {Clinching  her  hands.) 

Dick.  Now,  listen,  Dorothy  ! You  know  Harry  Winters 
— well,  he  and  I are  going  to  take  the  train — 

Dorothy  {pursuing  her  own  thoughts).  Whose  picture 
did  you  say  that  was,  Dick  ? 

Dick.  I didn’t  say  anything  about  taking  a picture  ! I 
said  we  were  going  to  take  the  train. 

Dorothy.  Yes,  yes,  I know.  I mean  what  did  you  call 
this — this  person  ? {Taking  up  the  miniature  which  she 
examines .) 

Dick.  Lulu  Thornton,  of  course.  What’s  the  matter 
with  your  memory  ? 

Dorothy  {aside,  puzzled).  Lulu  Thornton,  I’ve  heard 
that  name  before,  but  where — when  ? 

Dick.  Well,  we  are  going  to  Hartford  to  spend  a few 
days  with  Captain  Rogers.  His  daughter  Mamie — 

Dorothy  {still  looking  at  the  immature  and  speaking 
of  Lulu  Thornton).  What  is  she  ? 

Dick.  What  is  she  ? Why,  she's  his  daughter,  Mamie 
Rogers,  of  course  ! 

Dorothy.  No,  no,  I mean  this  Lulu  Thornton  ? 

Dick.  Oh  1 An  actress — at  least,  she  used  to  be. 

Dorothy  {aside.)  An  actress  ! 

Dick.  Mamie  is  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  ! Laura  Dill- 
ing  can’t  hold  a candle  to  her. 

Dorothy  {as  before ).  Is  she  married  ? 

Dick.  Is  she  married  ? Why  she  isn’t  out  of  school  yet  ? 
What  under  the  sun  are. you  maundering  about!  Oh,  it’s 
Lulu  Thornton  once  more,  is  it  ? Yes,  she’s  married,  may 
be  dead  and  buried  for  anything  *1  know  to  the  contrary.  By 
the  way.  ( Walking  over  to  the  escritoire.)  I must  find  out 
about  that  train.  I think  it  leaves  at  eight  o’clock  in  the 
morning.  {Begins  hunting  for  a time-table  in  one  of  the 
pigeon-holes .) 

Dorothy  {as  before).  Dickie,  are  you  sure  that  you  are 
not  mistaken  ? 

Dorothy.  No,  I’m  not  sure.  That’s  why  I’m  hunting 
for  a time-table. 

Dorothy.  I mean  about  this — actress.  I had  heard  her 
spoken  of  as  Blue — 

Dick.  Bluebeard,  eh  ? Now  look  here,  I’m  sick  of  this  ! 
{Advances  to  Dorothy.)  Am  I talking  to  you,  or  are  you 
talking  to  me,  or  does  either  of  us  know  to  whom  we  are 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


1 7 


r 


talking,  or  what  we  are  talking  about  ? Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  Maxfield  has  never  told  you  about  his  brother’s  mar- 
riage ? 

Dorothy.  His  brother’s  marriage  ? — What  has  that  to 
do  with — Oh,  yes,  I remember — his  brother  Charlie  married 
an  actress.  ( Excitedly .)  You  don’t  mean  to  say  that  this — 

Dick.  Yes,  that’s  she,  Lulu  Thornton,  Charlie  Maxfield’s 
wife.  The  family  raised  a great  time  about  the  marriage  at 
first,  but  when  they  saw  what  a brick  she  was — how  she 
nursed  Charlie  through  the  fever,  and  stood  by  him  all 
through  his  financial  troubles — why  they  changed  their 
minds,  and  now  they  think  there’s  nobody  in  the  world  like 
her. 

Dorothy  {aside).  Yes,  yes,  I begin  to  see  it  all  now. 
And  that  man  says  he  isn’t  a tease — Oh  ! Still,  Dick  may  be 
mistaken.  {Aloud,  advancing  and  motioning  to  her  brother 
to  approach .)  Come  here  ! {Holds  the  miniature  before 
his  eyes.)  Dickie,  are  you  perfectly  sure  that  that  woman  is 
Dr.  Maxfield’s  brother’s  wife  ? 

Dick  {imitating).  Yes,  I am  perfectly  sure  that  that  woman 
is  Dr.  Maxfield’s  brother’s  wife.  Do  you  want  me  to  swear 
to  it  ? What’s  up  ? You  act  like  a detective  following  a 
clue. 

Dorothy  {hesitatingly).  But  Dr.  Maxfield  called  her 
Bluebell. 

Dick.  Oh,  Dr.  Maxfield  called  her  Bluebell,  did  he  ? 
Well,  he’s  her  brother-in-law, — he  ought  to  know.  {Suspi- 
ciously.) I understood  you  to  say  that  Maxfield  had  never 
spoken  of  her  to  you. 

Dorothy  {slightly  embarrassed).  Neither  he  has.  He 
merely  mentioned  the  name  Bluebell  in  connection  with  that 
photograph. 

Dick  {looking  at  her  sharply  and  evidently  thinking 
hard).  Oh,  he  did,  did  he  ? {A  short  pause.)  Well,  her 
right  name  was  Isabelle  Hart.  Bluebell  might  be  a pet 
name.  It  is  not  improbable — Isabelle — Bluebell — hey  ? 

Dorothy.  Improbable!  Not  at  all.  Isabelle — Bluebell 
— why  that’s  as  plain  ! {Drawing  a breath  of  intense  relief.) 
My,  what  a bright  boy  you  are,  Dickie  ! 

Dick  {drawing  himself  up).  It  takes  some  people  a 
long  time  to  find  out  things. 

Dorothy  {aside).  The  feeling  of  relief  I experience 
proves  to  me  how  much  I was  suffering.  How  could  he  do 
it ! My  teasing  is  innocence  itself  compared  with  his.  Oh, 
the  rascal  ! I — I — love  him — there  ! I don’t  believe  that  in 
my  heart  I really  doubted  him.  Still,  I did  experience  some 
2 


i8 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


of  the  pangs  of  jealousy — and  as  Lucy’s  mother  says,  “ A 
mad  dog  is  more  reasonable  than  a jealous  man  or  woman,” 
{Aloud.)  Oh,  what  a fool  I’ve  been. 

Dick.  There,  you  are  beginning  to  talk  like  a person  of 
sense.  I knew  that  you  would  soon  see  the  matter  in  that 
light.  Say,  Dot,  suppose  you  make  it  a ten. 

Dorothy  {laughing).  You  rascal  \ {Pinching  his  ear.) 
Well,  Dick,  for  this  once  a ten  it  shall  be — for  you’ve  earned  it. 

Dick  {aside).  Earned  it,  did  I ! Well,  that  was  a cinch  S 
What’s  the  matter  with  her,  anyhow.  She  isn’t  often  in 
such  a generous  mood.  I’m  afraid  I’ve  wasted  a golden  op- 
portunity. I could  kick  myself.  I know  now  how  a Chat- 
ham Jew  feels  when  a customer  has  given  him  his  asking 
price  without  a demur.  Why  didn’t  I raise  the  ante  ? 
{Aloud,  turning  to  his  sister.)  Dorothy — you — know  how 
fast  money  goes  and — 

Dorothy.  Ten,  Dickie.  Not  a-  dollar  more. 

Dick.  Just  another  five. 

Dorothy.  Not  another  cent. 

Dick.  You  mean  it  ? 

Dorothy.  I mean  it — but  Dickie,  dear,  I’ll  fix  it  all 
right  with  papa  about  your  going,  and  I’ll  make  you  a pres- 
ent of  my  new  grip. 

Dick.  I asked  Lucy  for  it  a few  minutes  ago — but  she 
said  you  needed  it — that  you  were  going  to  Aunt  Margaret’s. 

Dorothy.  Oh,  yes,  I forgot.  Well,  I’ll  give  up  that  trip. 
You  may  have  the  valise. 

Dick.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  unwonted  generosity  ? 
Dorothy,  excuse  me,  but  1 fear  that  you  are  ill.  Let  me  feel 
your  pulse,  sister  mine.  {Takes  her  by  the  wrist.) 

Dorothy.  No,  not  ill,  Dickie,  dear,  only  so  relieved  and 
happy  that  I could  dance  for  very  joy. 

Dick.  And  I ! — Ten  dollars  ! — A bran  new  valise  with 
gold  mountings  !’ — Hartford  ! — Mamie  ! — Come,  Dorothy, 
that  is  worth  a dance  ! {Introduce  specialty  song  or  dance 
or  not , at  will,  carrying  on  the  following  fragmentary 
conversation  the  while  if  intro  due  ed.) 

Dick.  Ah,  this  is  more  fun  than  a goat  ! 

Dorothy.  Of  course  it  is. 

Dick.  My,  what  a pretty  foot  ! 

Dorothy.  Thank  you. 

Dick.  Dorothy ! 

Dorothy.  Yes  ? 

Dick.  Make  it  fifteen. 

Dorothy.  . No — no — no — no — no — no  ! {Keeping  time 
to  the  music l) 


AFTER  THE  MATINEE 


(Lucy  appears  in  the  doorway , looking  on  in  some  surprise 
at  this  unusual  exhibition .) 

Dick  ( sinking  into  a chair  and  fanning  himself  wi'* 
his  handkerchief ).  Phew  ! I can  stand  no  more.  (Dorothy 
stops  and  remains  standing , using  her  fan.)  Here  comes 
Lucy.  I had  better  go  now  and  dress  for  dinner.  Good-bye 
for  the  present,  sister  mine.  ( Leaves  the  room j chucks  Lucy 
under  the  chin  in  passing.) 

Dorothy.  Good-bye,  Dick,  Well,  Lucy,  what  is  it  ? 

Lucy.  Shall  I put  the  book  that  you  were  reading  into 
the  bag  ? 

Dorothy.  No.  Ahem  ! In  fact  you  needn’t  mind  about 
packing. 

Lucy.  You  are  not  going  ? 

Dorothy.  No  ; Aunt  Margaret  doesn't  need  me — for  a 
while — yet.  And,  Lucy,  I’ve  changed  my  mind — tell  Baker 
that  when  Dr.  Maxfield  calls,  I will  receive  him  in  the 
drawing-room. 


CURTAIN 


